Herald of Mythal
by SufferingIsAChoice
Summary: Lavellan's journey to become Herald of Mythal, Champion of the Elvhen, hope of her People, at whatever cost.
1. We are The People

Herald of Mythal, Chapter One

The Champion of Kirkwall slaughtered a clan, and the shems made her a hero. Well, there were rumors that it had been some sort of misunderstanding, some fallout of one of The People trying to restore Arlathan, but I would listen to none of it. And the clans in around the cities the shemlen called the Free Marches had to listen to it too. The clan was slaughtered, and not long after something went down, in Kirkwall that sent the human mages and Templars out into the woods and wilds. We could not afford to ignore them, or their politics.

We never could entire, of course. We never had that right. The aravels, the halla, all of us, crossed over lands they claimed was theirs. Sometimes it would help to send someone into their towns, to find out how they felt about us, if there were soldiers marching, and too often that task fell to me. I was big, after all, and with my hair shaved short could sometimes pass a man, since so many humans think we all look alike. And I made sure to carry a big axe, on my back at all times, just in case.

And then the Keeper had bad dreams. She saw fire, and slaughter, and death in the south. The gods spoke to her, for whatever worth that had. I gave no credence to the gods, but I would defend the people at any cost, and knew the ways of the humans. So I was sent south, to a meeting between human factions, at a place they held sacred.

That much I knew, and repeated to myself, over, and over, and over again. I was Lavellan, in this land of humans. I had no other name. I was the People. I was the Elvhen. They could call me whatever they wanted, elf, a mispronunciation, or Dalish, their name for a home they destroyed. They could call me rabbit, knife-ear, anything, and who I was would never change. I would never change. They could not change me.

"I don't remember," I had told them.

I was not lying. Something had happened at their sacred temple. I did not remember what. I remembered my Clan, and the Keeper, and my mission.

"The humans will tear the world apart, if we let them. They will finish the destruction Tevinter began ages ago. Do not let them. Keep the world safe."

I thought she was being dramatic. She did that, after all, spoke of the gods as if they were real, as opposed to stories to keep us together. But then there was mark, on my hand. Magic I did not understand, and demons pouring out of the sky, until I intervened.

The Inquisition, they called it, and I, the Herald of Andraste. Let them. I would use it. Let them think their Maker, just as silent as our gods, and their burned symbol had saved me. If it helped me I would let them. But I knew, in my heart, that I served only The People. There was a hole in the world, and The People lived in the world, so I would close the hole, and save the world for them, not for any shemlen.

The mage, Solas, claimed he was not one of us, the same as the archer. They are both wrong. The Elvhen are all of us. Never again shall we surrender. I am the hope of the Elvhen, and if the Inquisition must restore order in a world gone mad then I will do so.

"Do you believe what they say about you?" I am asked.

"Every word," I lie, and doubt grows within me.

More people join me. A qunari, which is good, he is fighting against the loathsome Imperium. A Warden, lying about something. A human mage, up to no good. I trust no one. I cannot trust them. Why was I sent here, to this strange world? I miss the aravels, and the halla, and my friends. I look in the mirror, and trace my vallaslin and am comforted. The world will see me. I am servant of the People. The Herald of the Elvhen. I, we, are the Elvhen, keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path.

The mage and the girl grow on my nerves. They hold our people in so little regard. Have the shemlen conquered even their minds and hearts? I do not believe in gods, but I do believe in stories. Stories have power. The stories we tell among the aravels unite us together, and to Arlathan of old. They matter, even if they aren't real.

The dwarf agrees with me, but he knew the Champion, and I cannot trust him.

There was a girl among us, a mage sent from her clan to ours. I think I had a crush on her, and now I do not know.

I will subjugate the Templar order. I lie, but I know my own reason. I want to do it because I want to see them bow before me, one of The People. I remember them hounding our mages, our keepers, our firsts and seconds, and I want to control them. Fen'Harel take the magister in Redcliffe, he can deal with his own mess.

And all the while, I wonder, why me? Why am I doing this? And doubt gnaws at me more and more.


	2. Keepers of the Secret Lore

Herald of Mythal, Chapter Two

There was something else in my head. A demon. It tried to steal my face, and this spirit intervened. Let it stay, then. It helped, it can stay.

The demon showed me things. A future, maybe, an army of demons invading Orlais, and I grin at the memory, despite myself. Orlais destroyed our home. I will make the Inquisition something to be feared, and then I will turn any wrath I can muster on the world of shemlen. They are worth nothing.

Well, Blackwall's alright, maybe.

I shake myself.

Focus on more important things. Get the trebuchet into place, bring down the mountain on this attacker and the dragon.

The sky is closed, scarred, but whole. But, even in my hour of victory, as I considered slipping away and finding a way across the Waking Sea, I was attacked. We were attacked, and now we are buying time for people I do not care about.

I ask myself why, again, but something inside me answers. I know this is right, and I don't know why, and it infuriates me.

The mage goes down. One of The People, even if she gave up her heritage to live with shems, and a shame, really. The trebuchet is ready, and I prepare to fire, when there is a burst of dragons breath. I am thrown back, and a figure emerges. Tall. Unnatural. Blighted. His, for it must be his, dragon is behind me.

"Whatever you are, I'm not afraid," I say.

"Words mortals often hurl at the darkness, once they were mine. They are always lies. Know what you have pretended to be. Know the Elder One, the will that is Corypheus. You will kneel."

What is he? Or what was he, maybe? Mortal, apparently, so dwarf, human, or qunari, but magic, so no dwarf. No horns, so no qunari. Human, then, once, but immortal now? How has he stolen a gift his people took from us so many years ago, I think, in a flash. How is he immortal, when rightfully such a gift belongs to me? And yet he has the insufferable gall to call me a mortal.

"Never again shall I submit," I spit.

"You will always resist," he says, as he calls on magic, and I feel my hand thrum. "It is your fault, Herald, you interrupted a ritual years in the making, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose."

"Nothing more than you've stolen from us, shemlen," I hiss, under my breath, as he pulls me off the ground, and holds me, my arm aching.

"I once breached the fade," he declares, inches from my face, "to serve the Old Gods of Empire in person, I found only dead whispers. I have returned to champion whither Tevinter, and correct this blighted world. Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it is empty."

He throws me from his grasp.

"Tevinter," I gasp, "figures."

"The anchor is permanent," he declares, ignoring me, "so be it. I will find another way to give this world the nation, and god, it requires. I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die."

"Shemlen."

The trebuchet swings up, and out, and, with a crash, a moment later, the mountain falls. The Tevinter mage snarls, and his dragon grabs him up. I turn, and face the oncoming wall of white. How stupid, this is, I think, dying in some strange land, buying time for humans. I do not think I will be here in any way after death. I think this is it, and only thing that brings me any joy is knowledge that, in some small way, I am frustrating the plans of Tevinter. I am free. Tevinter, and the shemlen, will never control me. Maybe I kept the world safe, and intact, and The People, and my clan, live in the world, and that is enough. The sky is whole. I am free.

The avalanche hits like a sledgehammer to my armor. In one moment the world vanishes, and is replaced my white chaos, noise, and confusion. I feel myself being carried backwards, and prepare for death.

Suddenly, almost as suddenly as it hit, the avalanche is no more. I breathe, and feel my chest, and bones ache. For a moment I consider wild potential. Am I dead? Did I die? Is this uthenera? Am I in the beyond?

I open my eyes, and they still. My breathing is forced, I suspect a few of my ribs are cracked. I do not think any afterlife would have cracked ribs, I concede. I am apparently still alive. I rub my eyes. I appear to be in some sort of tunnel, with a beam of light travelling down from an opening above. Snow falls on me. I must have been tossed here.

But how? I wrack my mind. I remember tunnels, or mentions of tunnels, talk of some dragon cult that lived here years before, but I thought they were all up near the temple, not down in a valley. I don't remember finding any in all my comings and goings. How did I fall into one, so easily, just on accident?

My hand throbs, and pulses with energy I do not understand. I do not understand so much. But if I received this mark from a Tevinter mage, and interrupted his plans, if a member of The People stood against our old enemy, and a dragon in the image of his imagined gods, maybe this was why I felt right. He said the throne of the gods was empty, and that he aspired to godhood. But I could never allow such a thing. Shem and their gods will always be nothing. I wonder, maybe this was why I felt I was where I needed to be.

I start moving, down the tunnel, and find myself remember the Keeper's dreams. She said she heard whispers from the gods, and I did not believe her. I do not believe her now, but I still feel doubt gnawing at my mind. The people call me Herald of Andraste, and think the Maker is with me, and I do not believe them. I would never believe in shemlen gods. But everything that has happened seems so far-fetched.

I remember the ancient gods. The lore of them that we have preserved, the stories that yet live within me, and find myself wondering, despite myself, if something else, something more powerful than me, and the shems, is at work here, protecting The People still.


	3. Walkers of the Lonely Path

Herald of Mythal, Chapter Three

The blizzard must have come up while I was clawing my way through the tunnels. I had finally found the entrance, and outside was only a blinding wall of white. I could see nothing out there, so I waited, as my ribs ached. I ate some snow for water, but eventually I started to feel a void in my stomach as the light faded. Eventually I drifted off into a fretful sleep that brought no rest.

When I awoke the blizzard was still raging, a complete whiteout outside. I considered my situation. No food, no rescue from the shems, most likely, since they would think me dead. So much for their precious Herald of Andraste. I did not know where I was, and I had no way of knowing where the nearest friendly shelter would be. My ribs ached, my head pounded, and I did not feel cold, which worried me more than the cold I had felt before. Eventually, the light faded again, and I slept fitfully, in small intermittent spurts.

I awoke, and I knew my strength was fading. I considered immortality. For untold eons my ancestors had been spared the ravages of sickness, age, and death. But I was not my ancestors. Corypheus, Tevinter, and all the shemlen had stolen my birthright from me, and I was not yet ready to die. I did not trust any story of gods or afterlife enough for that. I bit my tongue and remembered all I had to fight for, let that anger swell in me, imagined my revenge, and set out into the storm.

As I listened to the wolves howl, I remembered a story we were told, once, a long time ago, when word came from Ferelden that one of ours had sacrificed herself to slay an archdemon. We were confused, and asked questions, and the keeper sat us down and told us a story I barely remembered because I was trying to flirt with this cute girl, and had been too busy with that to pay attention.

"Da'len, let me tell you of Ghilan'nain, Mother of Halla. Once, long ago, a clan was lost in a blizzard, and they prayed to her, goddess of navigation, asking her to show them the way. And they heard halla calling in the snow, but they could not see them, so white were the beasts, and so white snow. And in their despair, and the cold, they foolishly thought the gods had forsaken them, and left them to die. Until, in their wanderings, they found a trail of crimson red on the white, frozen ground. They followed it, and it led them to a case where they might shelter, and inside was a halla, gored with its own horns, and bleeding out. Thus remember what your gods might do for you."

As I wandered up a slope, I listened more to the wolves. I was high in the mountains, I was sure, on the slopes well above Haven. The tunnels must have lead uphill. I did not remember the tunnels leading uphill, but they must have, considering how thin the air is in my throat. This high up I would have to worry about cliffs, falls, and crevasses, I knew. So I followed the howling wolves, lost in the blizzard, knowing at the very least that they had to be walking on something, and with no better guide, so I pressed on.

"Ghilan'nain, if you even exist, if you ever existed, if you're more than a story, now would be a good time to help."

I felt the wind shift, blowing directly into my face, as the sky overhead was suddenly less a wash of white. I saw a sunset, and the stars coming out, and realized I was cresting a high mountain pass. My eyes stung, and I did not know how long I had been walking. My knees felt week, as I looked back, and saw the world, or at least Ferelden, laid out beneath me.

"There she is!" Someone shouted.

I turned back, and saw the camp in front of me, and at that very moment passed out.

"A word," Solas said, and I was welcome for the distraction.

I had told them what I had seen, of Corypheus, the object he wielded, and of his claims of divinity, or at least aspirations thereof. And they had filled in the rest. Already they were calling this yet another miracle of Andraste. They said I had returned from the dead. I knew I was mortal, and had not died, but I would let them believe what they would. And there were things I could not explain myself.

"The orb he carried," the annoying bald mage says, lighting an incongruous lamppost with magic, "it is ours. We must prepare for their reaction when they learn the orb is of our people."

"How do you know this?"

"They were foci, said to channel power from our gods. All that remains now are echoes of memories in the fade from a long dead empire. But the orb is elven, and with it he threatens the heart of human faith."

"Filthy Tevinter bastard," I curse, and Solas frowns. "He has taken something from even our gods?"

"Da'len, the gods are not here."

"Solas!" I hiss. "I need you, you know more about the fade than anyone, but the gods matter. They are important. They unite our people."

"Our people?" He asks, skeptically.

"Don't start! We have not walked such lonely paths for so long only for you disparage us so. We are the living memory of Arlathan. We are the last memory of Arlathan. We are the elvhen. And I would see us restored to our glory, whatever Corypheus, or any human might say about it. I will see it."

An expression crosses his face I do not recognize. Pain? Sadness? Anger? Whatever it is, I have no time for him to talk so poorly of us anymore.

"Do you believe, then," he asks, slowly, "in the gods, and the goddess, whose mark you wear upon your face?"

I am marked with Mythal's mark, but he had not asked me this in Haven. He had disparaged the clans, talked about how we were poor echoes of former glory. And yet when I had suggested, kindly, I thought, that if he knew so much of what we once were, through his dreams in the fade, that he might teach us, he had seemed almost amused. I could not stand it. So we had not talked much more. Certainly not about this.

I was tired. I had eaten, but they could do little for my broken ribs. I do not know why I said what I said. Spite, maybe, or simply trying to get a reaction from him. Either way, I found myself speaking.

"Yes," I said, "I do believe."

"Very well then," he said, his face flat, "let us hope your faith is not misplaced, just as the humans' faith in you may not be misplaced. There is a place to the north I know of, where we can rebuild. I will tell our scouts."

As he walked off, and let the fire burn out, I stared at him, and wondered at the words I had just spoken aloud.


End file.
